


To be human

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, kind of religious/blashpemous, panties and stockings kink, scars kink, vague mentions of Destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>endverseCastiel headcannon ficlet inspired by a marvelous piece on Tumblr by brightfallenstars - see here http://brightfallenstars.tumblr.com/post/41212813495  (it's seriously one of my favorite fanarts, go check it out, copy paste man I don't know how to link on here) - this is a solo head piece sort of thing with vague mentions of Destiel</p>
            </blockquote>





	To be human

Castiel fumbled with the sheer material as it slid over a foot and up his ankle, wrinkling and twisting on it’s way up his leg while he tried to straighten and smooth it out, but the material was ripped and wasted anyway, a knee protruding, awkward angle, pale skin darkened by the near opaque black but the pattern of his body hair pulled in every different direction by the tight cling was apparent. He had observed women perform this action before, how they would carefully roll up the material before slipping it over a leg with practiced grace, but he did not have the experience and it did not particularly matter as there was no one here to appreciate the illusion but him. One thigh high stocking up, the elastic band a hard line against harder thigh, separating from the yielding material of the stocking, torn and frayed. After the first, Castiel pulled the second up steadier, breath deepening and relaxing at the whisper of stockings on skin. Having pulled them both on he managed to clasp the garters which connected them to the tight panties not made for a male’s anatomy, but it would do.

The items had been left behind by a woman in camp, which was not entirely uncommon. Many items were misplaced, lost, and left on purpose in Castiel’s eclectic cabin. Some were returned in person to their rightful owners, some were given to the lost and found box – which was really just a free for all – and other’s, few other’s, were kept by Castiel, and what had once been guilt for coveting the material possession of another had twisted into something else.

Castiel felt no shame in what he did – guilt, yes, always – but never shame. Clad solely in the stockings and panties, he kneeled in front of a small cracked mirror in his private quarters. The uncovered window allowed the glow of silver moon light to wash over tired wood paneling casting it in blue hues and illuminating the harshness of night with an ethereal sort of beauty. Nimble fingers traced over the scars that made a fine webbing along his body, deep gashes running his ribs, thin silver streaks dipping with his hips, puckers and creases and jagged marks that lit up his skin, it was entirely his and entirely human.

The very first scar that had stayed with Castiel, a set of three deep claw marks, had created something of a chain reaction. When the wounds did not heal Castiel knew that he had well and truly fallen – it was a slow process, falling in pieces and bits here and there, leaving his wings scattered, for Castiel it took time – but when marks remained on his body Castiel knew his Grace had evaporated like water in the desert. Immediately, the fallen angel had developed a fascination with the wounds as they turned to crusted scabs and still as the scabs sloughed away leaving red furrows along his skin. Castiel was even more enamored of marks upon his body the first time Dean saw those scars, hands reverently tracing their path while wide eyes had flicked rapidly between awe and loathing and fear and lust. Castiel did not purposefully seek out, but he did not avoid, receiving scars on his body since then.

Running cold hands over the rippling fabric on his thighs, small sparks of static lingering like fireflies in the night, he breathed deep and controlled, like the meditations he had learned to calm his human mind and the incessant buzzing it produced in isolation. Fingertips pushed underneath the elastic bands of garters and smoothed up the angles of hips, tracing scars, skin quivering beneath his own touch, stomach taught and firm as it dipped in, pressed out, in, out, with breaths growing increasingly ragged.

Tonight, there were no pills to dull the questioning uncertainty his life had become, no alcohol to blunt the hard edges of physical reality, no women to warm his responsive body, no men to seize the control he did not want. Nothing, but a fallen angel and his guilt. Castiel touched himself, regarding the desperate eyes he did not often recognize anymore in the mirror, kneeling as if in prayer, until his cock managed to push it’s way free of black satin, flushed red and twitching over the tight band, but he still did not touch that.

Something was missing. Of course, it’s actual presence, it’s ontological certainty in his very being, had been missing for a long long time. But the physical trappings that humans often used to remind themselves of things they doubted, he could still have this. Reaching for a rosary that hung off the corner of a chair, Castiel wrapped it around his wrist several times, contemplating Hail Mary’s with a confused sense of the sacred and the profane twisting around him.

It was like this, in the quiet moments where Castiel had only his present, his past, and his future to keep him company; the sum total of his existence and his potential and all that had been lost could smother him. Then he turned to old habits, meshed them with new, the episteme of his old religious certainty mixing with the phenomenon of new human sexuality. It was considered, at great length, whether he should feel more shame for what he did, longing for the father of his long lost ideology with the only thing he had left to give of his flawed human body. But on night’s like these, cold and lonely, the night’s before an important mission when Dean would not be found and the entire camp behaved with nervous apprehension - staying quiet staying low staying alive - these night’s when all Castiel had was everything he had been and everything he never wanted to become, he would pull on the physical manifestations of these reminders and let himself exist as a human for the sole sake of being that human.


End file.
